


Any Second Now

by DisasterShipBlonde



Category: The Young Pope (TV)
Genre: A little bit non-con if you're sensitive, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Roman Catholicism, Shenanigans in theatre seating, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:14:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27045562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisasterShipBlonde/pseuds/DisasterShipBlonde
Summary: Don Cavallo has been wining and dining Cardinal Assente for a while, but to no avail. What gives?
Relationships: Mario Assente/Luigi Cavallo
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	Any Second Now

Deep joy, another encore.

Cavallo shifts in the uncomfortable theatre chair. Dinner and a show on three occasions, and not the slightest hint of his investment paying off. Assente isn’t even listening to the orchestra. A quick glance at his face shows deep, hooded eyes lost in thought. Cavallo feels a stab of irritation. He’s daydreaming about that tubby little Spaniard; Cavallo would put money on it. Utterly nonsensical, the worst kind of schoolboy crush. Bernardo Gutierrez hasn’t anything to offer a man like Mario Assente. He doesn’t come from money, not as far as Cavallo’s investigations have turned up, and he insists on living so simply it’s frankly a waste. The spiciest tidbit isn’t even a secret: everyone knows he likes a drink or two for breakfast. No man of his age wriggles out of a habit like that, Cavallo would warn Assente if only he’d ask. If it weren’t for Gutierrez insinuating his way into the Pope’s favour – and Cavallo had to hand it to him, that was a masterful performance of sucking-up; Olympic-standard toadying, he couldn’t have done it better himself – he most definitely wouldn’t be a cardinal today. Pius XIII is widely spoken of as a tyrant, but as far as Cavallo can see, the mincing American shit will let any old stray into the inner sanctum. As for Gutierrez, Cavallo would happily place another hefty bet on Assente not so much as noticing the little priest without those crimson trimmings.

Cavallo does not _like_ it when things make no sense.

He likes it even less when his efforts go unappreciated.

Three fucking times. He had such high hopes. The authoritative approach was a gamble, but it worked straight off the bat: “Mario, it’s me. I have tickets for the Sistina. We’ll get a pizza afterwards.” No room for ifs or buts or inconvenient little Spaniards. And Assente had duly turned up, smelling of spice and resin, not a hair out of place, polished and obedient and seemingly – seemingly! – cognisant of his role in all this. Three times they did this little dance, pretending to enjoy the music, pretending to peck at dinner – that’s another thing; why pay for food your date barely touches? How does the man survive? Photosynthesis? – and each time the night trailed off into a big fat nothing. Not even so much as a sloppy kiss down a quiet alley. Assente’s knees are glued shut, which is entirely in opposition to the intelligence Cavallo had gathered on him, that's for damn sure. People whisper. _I see how you look at me_ , he wants to hiss, but he knows if he loses his temper the whole house of cards will come down. Assente will draw himself up to his full height and act the affronted aristocrat, which, Cavallo is coming to learn, is the tactic that gets him through life. (Another thorny point – the airs and the graces. _I have_ seen _your files, young man, your breeding is less than pedigree, and I_ know _you didn’t buy yourself those shiny trinkets you so adore.)_ No, he must be brought to heel.

The orchestra weaves a romantic spell. In the candlelight, the faces around them are rapt. Couples, well-to-do families, the odd priest. They couldn’t have come to a lovelier place.

Three. Fucking. Times. And when the concert is over they will once again meander through the streets to their customary pizzeria where Cardinal Cocktease will eye the food as if it has personally offended him, and it won’t matter how much wine Cavallo gets inside Assente – another expense, thank you very much – he will remain the very picture of chastity. And all the while he’ll gaze off with those big, melancholy eyes, wondering what _Bernardo_ is up to this evening, as if the dumpy little Dago were off at war and not alone in his pyjamas, giving his liver a gin bath.

Cavallo is being gypped, frankly. A sensation he does not take kindly to.

He has _qualities_ , after all. He knows how to treat a date. Ask any of the dozens of seminarians he’s toyed with over the years. And he is taller than Gutierrez by a good six inches, which has to count for something when pursuing such elegant quarry.

He steals a look at Assente in the dark. A vision of chic refinement in a slim-fitting casual suit, one long leg crossed over the other. Lust and annoyance twist inside Cavallo. Fucking _rude_ is what it is.

A change of tack, then. A Hail Mary, if you will. The concert is coming to an end, but the lights are still low and the music still soaring. Assente stares ahead, lost in a dream. At first he doesn’t notice the hand above his knee, light at first, then firmer, as Cavallo allows the full weight of his palm to warm the flesh through that expensive fabric. Assente doesn’t react, though surely he feels it. Perhaps he's holding out, the little prude. But there it is: the slightest flutter of long lashes betrays him. He’s waiting to see what Cavallo will do. The older man doesn’t need further encouragement. As the music rises and plunges, the hand makes its way up Assente’s long, lean thigh, still obstinately crossed over its twin. It’s the most they’ve ever touched, completely forbidden, impossible to misinterpret, and goodness me, yes, he’s breathing harder. All the cardinal’s mannerisms are so minute, so measured. It’s a thrill to watch him try to keep his composure. Cavallo indulges in a little more pressure, sliding slowly – so infuriatingly slowly - towards the warm juncture between his prey’s thighs while both men stare ahead as if nothing were happening. It is wildly irresponsible. One curious glance from any of the people around them and they’ll be done for. Assente certainly knows it; the tiniest of tremors passes through his slender body as his companion’s middle finger dips audaciously between his legs despite the muscles working hard to keep them firmly shut and all invaders out. Token resistance only. Cavallo smiles to himself. Finally, compensation.

The house lights come up and the audience bring their hands together to clap. The clergymen quickly disengage and join in the applause, and with a flush of satisfaction, Cavallo notices the deep blush painting Assente’s cheekbones. Ah, the authoritative approach. Who is he to deny his beloved what he needs?

Onstage, the conductor turns smartly and takes another bow. The audience offers a second wave of applause, and as those around them stand in appreciation, Cavallo grins against Assente’s warm ear:

“You’re wrapping those legs around me tonight, Mario.”

And the resulting wide-eyed shiver is worth the wait. In this moment, Cavallo can happily believe the applause is for him.

_1-0 to me, Bernardo, you Spanish souse._

**Author's Note:**

> (I refuse to call them Mario and Luigi, okay.)
> 
> Thank you, as always, to the Discord pals! Join us, Pope fans! http://discord.gg/shrcJeH3Uz


End file.
